


Bad, Bad Things

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Coercion, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Possibly Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 21:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: “Think about it, the gold with our uniforms would go great with your hair.”





	Bad, Bad Things

**Author's Note:**

> The depiction of cap size in this story is horribly inaccurate and requires some hand-waving, just as a heads up.
> 
> Originally supposed to be a couple chapters long, this story is a look into a possibility of David trying to manipulate Willy to Boston under the precursor of an old relationship. A lot of stuff was gutted but I'm open to adding more should the idea come to me.

The media dogs bark up a scene at the entrance to the dressing room. They have security clearance dangling from their necks, dressed in work-casual attire but still managing to stick out like a sore thumb. It’s the blue that tips David off; they all abide by the navy colour scheme as if it’s a regime.

The questions they poke him with aren’t spectacular. They go in one ear and out the other. His responses do their best to match their energy, meaning he comes off like a lecturing professor a few years past his prime, stuck teaching the entry-level courses. It’s nothing to write home about, just as how his agents like it.

That is, of course, until Toronto’s gravitational pull sucks him back. All it takes is one question for the whole pack of dogs to get yelping. It’s about Nylander too: of course it is. There isn’t a day that goes by where he’s not primed on how to answer their requests. 

It still takes him down a few pegs. He knows it shows on his face.

“Yeah, of course, I miss him,” comes easily but then he has to bullshit. “He’s a great guy. Great player.” Two of the reporters butt heads trying to question him at the same time. He waits for them to untangle before proceeding.

“Willy’s going to be great wherever he is,” he ends it there.

It’s as if friendship alone knots their wrists together. As much as David wishes it were the case, it appears that the mind link between them comes at much risk and no benefit. If it did, he wouldn’t be having this conversation. Toronto would be but a bad taste in the mouth of a relatively good day as he makes his rounds and returns home, elbows linking him to another warm body.

He’s getting hot under the collar with all the backward light bouncing in his face. The scrum keeps him around for a few more questions that are as ambiguous as they are misleading. Just as soon as it began, the little caravan travels to the next unfortunate victim. Tonight they leave with scraps to stitch with a needle and thread. He answered; that was enough.

It’s no surprise that Willy’s entry-level contact would create some waves. Subtract the dozens of articles spinning allegations of their agents going this way and that and it’s a very simple algorithm; an all too common story written so many times the pencil lead is dull.

David’s feed is bombarded with mentions from nobodies shovelling out content from his prior contract negotiations in order to fit their agenda. The worrisome text froth into paragraphs of wobbly “would-be” scenarios. 

Also not a surprise, Boston’s eyeing some kind of bridge deal with the new turn of events. It’s another band-aid ripping pain that competes against the noise pollution making up his tag on Twitter.

But it’s not that he isn’t pleased. Willy has a flair for the dramatics, even unintentionally. It takes him back a few years to simpler times. Collective bickering arguments all funnelling into a good tripping match on the ice: if not drama then maybe simple immaturity was Willy’s strong suit. 

But alas, Willy’s the sole architect of his misery. All his life, easy pickings stretch their branches out for him to hold, sustaining himself with the words of people from across screens. To have the same noise exist but with increasing negativity swings a shovel to the back of his head. 

David always wondered what were the requirements of happiness. If they were monetary or social. He thinks now, it’s pretty fucking clear.

But even he’ll admit the little cat teaser click baits they dangle right in front of him occasionally get him to bare his claws. In his off time, he begins experimenting with some cold calls to the Swede. Nothing too personal, just some well wishes. It’s a way to bring himself back into Willy’s orbit. Nothing ever gets sent though. 

He and Willy have a brand; they’re no stranger to getting the nostalgia running like beer taps. Boston’s reporters put their heads together. It’s something for the papers. A way to get Boston back in the negotiation playing field using one of their own. Who knows Willy better than the guy who helped develop him?

They do the interview post-workout in some dark stall. It’s all recorded to be transcribed to form later but he knows the little details will bump the word count. He’s sweating through his shirt and just the mention of Willy gets his mouth churning out paragraphs. Their kitten mouths lap it up.

They doll up his comments in shades of common hockey speak and release it into the tank of sharks below about a week later. It’s by no means a big publicity stunt, but the repercussions of swimming with the barbed complements become known. 

 

Post-game with Florida and he’s coming home with electricity. His belongings are tossed on the leather ottoman in the hallway, piling up on the bowl of keys and residential mail for the coming election in his township. Mud tracks are scrubbed out on the rubber whorls of the mudroom rug before his shoes are toed out of and stored on the wire rack to dry. 

His stomach rumbles but it’s a sad imitation of hunger. If salt and vinegar chips were in the diet he may comply but a late-night snack consisting of nothing but dried out vegetables doesn’t bode well. He settles for sipping water from the built-in filter of his fridge; it’s got a bit of sparkle to it that the tap can’t provide. 

All part of the post-game ritual.

In his back pocket, his phone sits. He’s habituated to the shape of it and doesn’t even feel the first vibration until a wind chime follows suit. It begs for his attention, the rings dolled out in production-line form. Only as it becomes a roar does some intuition force a hand down the pocket to get it.

The screen depicts an international caller with a tiny plus sign. The contact information is far more interesting. The tiny square portrait holds a close-up of what looks like a whole palette of skin hues and then a splotch of pink: a tongue. Once the facial structure has been unscrambled it’s easy to identify the culprit as none other than Willy.

His thumb slams onto the receive call button. It’s the first time they’ve talked since, well, forever. Being in the national league doesn’t make for easy contact and the whole contract diabolical only rubbed the blisters raw. He doesn’t know how to hold himself with the other end of the line connecting. His free hand drops from the counter to his pocket, decides that looks too relaxed and then fastens it around his hip.

“Haló?” he tries to squash the wobbling in his voice. Sound casual. 

“David?”

“Hey, Wills.” He can’t stop the smile from entwining itself with his voice. “I like to see you're not a stranger.”

“I needed to hear your voice.”

David feels his heart thump. “Really? Well, it's good to hear you too.”

It feels good. It feels  _ right _ being in conversation with him. Willy’s got a watertight hold on David; it’s an all-encompassing hunger that never dies. The simple problem is that the reality is unattainable. David can’t cozy up to his marching heartbeat without feeling the inevitable stabbing pain as the dial tone blares. 

“I saw what you said.”

“Oh, the article?” David turns around to lean against the marble counter. He needs the support. “Yeah. They loved it”

“So I saw. You didn’t have to say anything so thanks. I think I needed to hear something from a person I knew.”

David scratches the back of his head. “Sorry about being MIA. I thought you did not want to be bothered.”

“It does get busy around here but nothing I can’t get out of. Call whenever.”

“I’ll do that” He navigates out of the kitchen and into the living room. "How is it all, by the way?"

“What do you mean?” The confusion is palpable. It warps Willy’s speech into something very childish.

“The contract?”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah. It’s uh--it is what it is. I can’t really say--”

“You do not have to tell me,” he interrupts. “Are you okay?”

“I’m actually not doing that much work. It’s just papa and my agent now.”

“Are they not letting you in the room or what?”

“Uhh,” Willy draws his words out into redundancy, “Yes. Technically they have to. But I run everything by them anyway.”

“Yikes.” David gnaws at the inside of his cheek, pressing his phone up against his ear using his shoulder. The muscles in his neck visibly strain.

“It’s a pain. That’s why I’m happy for distractions. Like you.”

“I’m glad.”

“But look at you huh? Hot streak?”

“Yeah.” His smile grows. It offsets his face, resembling more of a sneer. 

Willy lets him boast for a while. All in good fun. They usually do it at pre-game dinners but the new season has refused them that option. There’s so much to unload he feels as though he’s burying Willy alive. But through the descriptions of passes and vented frustrations alike, Willy just hums.

Eventually, David burns out. The balloon that’s been sucking up oxygen for some time has popped; he’s free. Like a teenage girl with a telephone, he finds himself twirling the metal chain around his neck through the gaps of his fingers, hanging on edge for what Willy will say next.

It doesn’t come on a triumphal noise. Willy’s muted colours being streaking out from the sound ports. It’s the excess from gutters gushing out.

“David?”

David’s tongue lurches forward. “Yeah?” he says. 

A sigh. “What should I do?”

He could say  _ follow your heart _ , but it is too artificial. Too marshmallow-fluffy. Processed. Not to mention, it’s fucking terrible advice.

But the other options are equally as bad. It dawns on him that there’s something else he could say, but the idea is caught up in the webbings of his safety net.

“Only you can decide,” he says.

“I wish I didn’t. I wish I could just let someone else decide for me.”

David can’t say anything. He waits.

Willy pipes back up. “It’s fucking exhausting thinking about Toronto this and Toronto that. I just want to play.”

Fire burns the strings away. The words he wants to say roll down into slots his tongue can access.

“Well, maybe you should think about, you know, not going back.” The second they leave his mouth there’s regret. He wishes he could paint himself better; come off as less malicious. But they’re out.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, think about it. Sometimes the easiest way isn’t exactly the best. Maybe all this is a, what do you say,” he twirls his hand around, “a blessing. A blessing in disguise.”

“I think that’s a bit of a stretch,” Willy laughs. The feedback from the phone begins to wobble, bumping up against David’s earlobe.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

“But where would I go?”

“You could always come here.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Too on the nose? He needs to distract himself by plucking at the cloth threads poking up from the middle of two couch cushions. 

“Boston?” Willy says. The very telling hitch in the vowels brings some promise to David. “Dude, they hate me there. You’re kidding, right?”

It’s something. All he has to do is foster hope; leave something for Willy to string his thoughts to as he lounges back on his bedroom pillow.

“No, not really.” Words evade him at the most inopportune moment. He clucks his tongue twice. “Toronto, Boston, who cares. But if you come here, you would be a legend.”

As expected, Willy responds to confrontation with a bout of laughter. He’s nervous, as he should be, and the downward spiral of Willy’s composure is telling enough: he’s still very open.

Willy is and always has played the part of the damsel in distress. His ineptitude to come to solutions to his problems stems from acres of insecurities that worm in between his vital organs like maggots. That possibility that someone will come to save him from his predicament and shower him in laurels of goal while kissing his tears away is all Willy needs to sustain himself with. It leaves him so vulnerable.

The laughter trickles out. “Nah, that’s stupid.”

“Think about it, the gold with our uniforms would go great with your hair.”

“Yeah, but that’s dumb. I can’t play in Boston. It’s out of the question.”

“Not even to play with me?” He layers the puppy dog whine in thick.

“I’d like nothing more, but imagine what Toronto would say.”

David stops for a second to recollect. He compiles every headliner from the articles to create one big damnation to Willy in his head.

“Who cares about what Toronto says? Willy, they do not respect you. At all.”

Willy takes his time responding. “Since when has the media ever?”

“I was not a pariah when I looked at other options.”

“But,” he hears Willy’s signature fidgeting in the background, the pulse of his leg thumping up and down on the floor tiles, “you’re you. I’m not like you. We’re different.”

“You deserve a team with players who are grateful for your skills. You want to play, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you wanna win a cup?”

“Obviously.”

“So think about it. Which team offers you this opportunity? It does not have to be Boston.” It chills his blood to mention the other open outcome. “Just go where you’ll be happy.” 

Willy smacks his lips. They’ve stumbled back into that void where words can no longer accurately express the self-conflict steaming up through their pores.

“It’s complicated.”

“So tell me!” It comes off as too strong. David curses the way anticipation sharpens his words. He can’t scare Willy away.

“What do you want me to say? I can’t disappoint my dad, or Kyle, or fuck, my teammates. I told Kappy I would be back by December.”

David swallows the acid in his throat. “You don’t owe them anything. What’s important is that you’re happy.”

“And what if being happy means being with the people I love?”

David tames that voice boomeranging around in his skull:  _ no, no, no _ . As much as it makes him nauseous, he’s in no position to dispute those claims, even if the image of the Finn propels bad things to flash before his eyes.

“Then do that,” his words choke him, “but don’t be afraid to look elsewhere.” 

It’s diluted, flat. Not much of a motivational speech.

“Thanks.” The relief in Willy’s voice isn’t palpable. It’s a front. Neither of them went into the conversation hoping to flip a switch and find an answer to bring this all to rest but it’s still disappointing. The sole admission of indifference wounds David.

“But Will,” David adds, “it’s really glad to see you again. I'm sorry if I get ahead of myself.”

It might be too late. There’s balancing on a pillar that only continues to shed its skin. Sooner or later one of them will fall. The thought of it sends shockwaves pulsing through his nervous system. It imitates heartburn dragging its way up his throat using claws.

“You just want me as a Bruin.” Thank God, Willy’s smile pokes through.

“Guilty,” David says. “I really want to play,”  _ to be _ , “with you.”

“Me too.” Willy begins to come back to David, separating their allegiances from the deeply planted seeds of friendship. 

David knows that’s the facet he needs to cultivate. Grow it big and strong. Bring Willy back to him.

“Maybe someday,” Willy adds.

“Maybe sooner than you think.” He pauses. “You should come visit. Even if just for a day.” 

“I’m not sure if Kyle would appreciate that.”

“Oh fuck him.” He doesn’t need to see Willy’s face to know his mouth is shaping into an oval at the disrespect. “You’re always welcome here. Maybe before the next game with the Leafs? The revival of our old pregame?”

“Weren’t  _ you _ the one to stop it?”

David had, but only because it was difficult to take to bed knowing your partner, for lack of a better word, lacked the restraint to not find entertainment elsewhere. That suceeded the awkward dinners where the noise of cutlery communicated their thoughts better than their own mouths. David's mounting accusations only bred like sewer rats As much as he wished he could go back and have him once more, foregoing grief over what couldn't be, Willy wouldn't be the kind to appreciate it. Everything is casual with Willy. Nothing can mean anything because if it did it would shrivel up his paper mache world.

That, however, doesn't apply when David's trying to win an argument. “Yeah, but I think you need it. A good one-on-one. We could have dinner at my place if you prefer dodging the media.” It can only be dinner. _Just_ dinner.

“I don’t know.” The sound is muffled. Willy must be biting his lip.

“Or we can go out, if that’s what you want. I’ll buy.”

“What, you don’t think I’m capable of taking the bill?”

“No,” David throws his legs up on the coffee table, “I just fully expect you to buy for me after you get paid.”

“Fucking yeah. Can we finally get that lobster special down at the oyster bar?”

"Anything you want, just think about it, yes? I think it would be good if you got out into the air, it could be our little secret."

“Of course,” Willy purrs. He must coil his body, as his voice becomes huskier. It’s seductive pull winds David in closer.

He doesn’t know if he’s reading wrong or if it’s really that thick but the genuine interest in Willy’s voice is tempting. It’s bait. Simple, plain, obvious bait. Willy’s got other people on the side to replace David. Willy’s not lacking in the department of sex. And yet, that thrill is lighting fire to the gasoline in his blood. He can’t stop.

“Fuck, I miss you,” David says. The admission comes with no prompting. His lips have the consistency of butterfingers.

Willy breathes. “I miss you too.”

“Come back soon?”

“I will.”

David has to steady himself. It’s word vomit, pulsing out of his throat. 

“Come back to me?” he says. He can’t feel the tips of his fingers, the connection fizzing out into television static. He’d do anything to have Willy’s hands to hold. Out in Boston, he’s kicked to the curb. 

He lingers, painfully, on the cusp of fear. His brain tries to will his friend into existence on the couch beside him, imagining how he sits, the expression on his face. Is he happy to know that their old dynamic could witness a rebirth? A pang of sadness at the admission of now-unrequited feelings? 

Maybe he’s holding back laughter.

“David,” Willy trails off. There’s an audible swallow. “We’ll see.”

_ We’ll see. _ It’s not a denial. It’s not, well, anything. It’s an empty sentence. It’s going to sit there until it goes bad and rots. Easy pickings from an owner who stands on the tips of his toes so as to not fall. All it’s going to take is one shove in the right direction.

David can work with that.

**Author's Note:**

> i do art, short stories, and behind the scenes work on my stories @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr! feel free to come chat or just look around.


End file.
